The Choices We Make: Captain of the Soul
by Ancalagar the Dragon Lord
Summary: April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain. Matthew Crawley couldn't imagine ever being happy, not even with Mary, not after Lavinia, so he fled to Manchester, to escape the memories. The story of what happened in the months between Lavinia's death and the confrontation with Richard Carlisle.
1. Introduction: The Cruelest Month

Author's note: This story is based on the eighth and ninth episodes of "Downton Abbey, Season 2," and does not infringe on the rights given to Julian Fellowes. This work quotes from the poets T.S. Eliot, William Ernest Henley, and Siegfried Sassoon.

The Choices We Make

_It matters not how strait the gate,_

_How charged with punishments the scroll,_

_I am the master of my fate,_

_I am the captain of my soul.*_

* * *

.

Introduction:

The world of 1919 was one of emotional desolation for the whole of Europe as the mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters mourned those who never returned from the Somme and the Dardanelles, from Ypres and Verdun, from the trenches and from No Man's Land; fathers and mothers mourned those children, grown and growing, who survived the war but immediately were lost thereafter to the most virulent pandemic in known history. So mounted the casualties. Between 1914 and 1919, more than sixty or seventy million lives were suddenly cut short, most of them young lives. In that year, a growing feeling of helplessness, worthlessness, and misery settled upon all the world of survivors in the shadow of the Great War and the Spanish Influenza. It was a desolation that brought out the famous words that haunted the world forever after: "This is the way the world ends: not with a bang but a whimper."**

The shock of ruined pride crept into all corners of society like a growing wasteland, into the hearts and minds of both poor and rich, common and aristocratic, working man or gentleman, for neither war nor pestilence make any distinction between human-designated classes. Not a single man or woman was unaffected. Not a single life was untouched. What fools they'd all been, before the upheaval, so secure in their complacency! Though conservatives and the elderly desperately tried to cling to their old world, gone was the foundation of the world they knew. Everything had changed.

What had the war dead fought for? What had they died for? Little more than a power contest between empires? Not ten years ago, had they not prided themselves on living and progressing in the civilized world? Yet the warning was there: for decades their empires had justified their expansion by spreading "civilization," but at the point and barrel of a gun. It was only ever a matter of time before the guns were pointed at other such civilized persons. If it had ever been there in the first place, civilization seemed to be coming apart at the seams.

But with the period of mourning comes the awareness that even if the old world is dying, life, sacred life, carries on. It must, otherwise it would be worthless.

But between the mourning and the awakening falls the shadow.

* * *

It was April.

Lavinia Swire's funeral was brief but it wrenched the hearts of the onlookers as much as any funeral for one so young and angelic as she was. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; each attended listened, and some wept as the first fistful of dirt fell into the open grave. Then the service ended, and the vicar led the attendants away, but Lavinia's fiancé lingered by the grave, staring at the nameplate on the casket below. Behind him lingered also two others: his cousin, Lady Mary Crawley, and a few feet behind her, her fiancé, Sir Richard Carlisle, awaiting her yet still keeping a distance.

Matthew Crawley heard Mary slowly approach, but he did not look up until she gently told him, "You must tell me if there's anything I can do."

"Thank you," he curtly replied, "but there's nothing."

Mary nodded, and turned away to give him some privacy, but before she could take another step, he spoke again. "That night when we were dancing, and Lavinia came down the stairs," he began, looking up as she turned again to meet his gaze, "she heard—she saw _everything._"

Mary inhaled sharply, her expression horrified. "How terrible for her," she cried. "I'm so sorry."

Matthew ignored the apology. A dark look had crossed his face. "Because of what she saw," he told Mary bitterly, "she thought we should cancel the wedding. That I belonged with you, and not with her." Mary's face became paler with each word he uttered, but he took no notice, and mercilessly continued, "She gave up because of us. She said to me when she was dying, 'Isn't this better?'" He looked at Mary again, and without concern for her reaction, and in grief-stricken rage, he added, "And I know it's a cliché, but I believe she died of a broken heart because of that kiss, and we were the ones who killed her."

"Oh, Matthew-" Mary protested feebly, flinching at the accusation, but again he interrupted.

"We could never be happy now, don't you see? We're cursed, you and I, and there's nothing to be done about it." He looked back into the grave, and then he whispered in a softer tone, "Let's be strong, Mary, and let us accept that this is the end."

Oblivious to the stricken expression in Mary's face, he gave no reaction as she replied in a shaking voice, "Of course it's the end. How could it not be."

And then a footstep sounded softly in the grass, and they heard Sir Richard's quite voice: "I'm so sorry about this." As Mary turned away, unable to look at Matthew any longer, he added to her, "Can I take you to the house, or…?"

"Certainly you can," she responded despodently. "I want you to."

So Sir Richard held out his arm to Mary, gave Matthew a short nod which went unnoticed, and placed his hat on his head before leading his fiancée away.

Matthew stayed behind, beside Lavinia's grave, for some time, long after they were gone, his anger, guilt, and bitterness wallowing in his heart, burning inside his chest like an acid, on a Monday only a couple of days after the Saturday on which he'd planned to marry his gentle, generous fiancée, on a cold morning in April. The clouds gathered above him, but he didn't move until the rain began to fall. Then a sudden, overwhelming need to escape, to get away from that place swept over him, and he made his way home, resolved to run away from the memories and the heartbreak.

The April showeres fell upon Downton village, muddying the sudden aura of terrible mourning. What should have been a happy time nearing a wedding became a nightmare leading instead to a funeral and destroyed hopes. But the influenza pandemic wasn't the only culprit of those destroyed hopes. Had he looked up from Lavinia's casket as Sir Richard came to lead Mary away, Matthew would have seen what she'd seen, a certain triumphant gleam in his eyes; and had he seen it before, he would have recognized the look in his cousin's countenance, one of hopelessness of desperate despair.

As a poet later commented, April is the cruellest month.***

* * *

*William Ernest Henley. "Invictus." (1875)

** T.S. Eliot. "The Hollow Men." (1919)

*** T.S. Eliot. "The Wasteland." (1922)


	2. Chapter 1: Death's Other Kingdom

**Okay, now that I've gotten started on this, I hope I'll be able to update at least somewhat regularly; my estimate is every couple of weeks. Enjoy!**

**Part One: Voices of the Dead**

Chapter 1

Death's Other Kingdom

It was still raining when Matthew stepped off the train in the station in Manchester, the city of his childhood, leaning on his maple-wood walking stick, and he waited as his valet carried out his packing case, holding out his free hand to take it.

"I can handle it, sir," Molesley protested once he saw Matthew's outstretched hand, but the latter shook his head.

"You have your own things to carry," he firmly responded. "I can manage this.

Molesley didn't look very assured, but he nonetheless handed the case to his employer. As soon as the valet let go of the handle, Matthew staggered under its weight, and would have fallen were it not for the support of his stick. Molesley's frown deepened.

"Sir, I really think…." But he fell silent at the dark look that had crossed Matthew's face, and made no further attempt to argue.

Matthew inhaled deeply, and with a great heave, he straightened and forced himself to take a step forward. Then slowly, deliberately, he made his way down the platform, forcefully placing one foot before the other, one step, and another, and still more until he passed the ticket offices and exited the station. Molesley remained close behind him, carrying his own case effortlessly, but prepared to come to his master's aid should he buckle. It took time, but the two of them struggled down the street until they came to a corner where they could wait for a taxi to drive by. Matthew set down his case, and in obvious exhaustion he leaned heavily on his stick.

Seven minutes passed, and then Molesley caught sight of a cab and flagged it down. Matthew took up his case again as Molesley opened up the back door, and the former stood aside waiting. Rather than hand the valet his case to load in the back, Matthew shoved it into the backseat, but the effort caused him to stumble. Instinctively Molesley caught him by the arm, and Matthew straightened, closing his eyes and willing the pain in his back and legs to ebb away.

The driver asked if he was alright, but rather than answer Matthew clambered inside and eased his head back, waiting for Molesley to finish loading his things. That done, he gave the driver the directions in a dull voice. Wordlessly the driver put the car into gear as Molesley climbed inside, and then the engine roared into life. Throughout this last stretch of the journey, Matthew said not a word to his valet or to the driver. He simply stared out the window at passing cars and people, without reaction, until the taxi slowed after some minutes and came to a stop before a house in the business district.

Matthew paid the driver and climbed out of the cab, and as Molesley began unloading their things, he pulled an old, nearly forgotten key from his coat pocket, and then stepped onto the porch, unlocked the door, and stepped over the threshold.

The house was silent; it was rarely in use now that he and his mother normally resided near his cousin's estate at Downton. As he entered the front hall, Matthew allowed Molesley to remove his coat and hang it on the rack by the door, and he looked around, taking in the dusty floor and the unlit lamps without comment. Then Helen Barlow, his mother's aging housemaid, appeared in the hall to greet them.

"Did you have a nice journey, Mr. Crawley?" she asked hesitantly, seeing his unhappy demeanor. When he made no response, she nervously continued, "There weren't time to have the house completely ready, sir, but I've dusted your room and done the bed. I'm working on the kitchen now."

Hearing her apologetic tone, Matthew replied, "It's quite all right. For now that's all I require. I'm sorry for asking you to come over here on such short notice."

Helen curtsied respectfully and then returned to the kitchen as Matthew set down his suitcase, which Molesley then picked up and promptly proceeded up the stairs. Matthew was almost tempted to again refuse to allow this service, but the walk from the station had tired him, and his legs, still weak from months of disuse, shook uncontrollably beneath him. He was uncertain he could have carried it another step anyway; but once he felt more steady, with the support of his stick he hobbled up the stairs, uttering no sound, neither grunt nor curse as his injured back and shrunken legs pained him. But continually placing one foot before the other, with one hand on his stick and the other clutching the handrail, he eventually made it to the top and sighed in relief as he stumbled the rest of the way into his old bedchamber.

Molesley had set down the case and was waiting for further instructions. Matthew leaned on the doorframe and took in the room where he'd lived for some eleven years before his removal to Downton. The books, photographs, and other items were gone of course, now at Crawley House, and he'd only taken a couple of miscellaneous items with him. Thus he looked at a room with an empty shelf, an empty closet, and an empty chest of drawers. It seemed cold and unwelcoming, devoid of personality since he and his mother left for Downton. Isobel had wanted to sell the house, but at that time Matthew wouldn't hear of it. Now he was very glad of this wisdom, though the house no longer felt like home to him.

"Would you like me to unpack, sir?" Molesley asked after a moment.

Matthew shook his head. "Later. You go take care of your own things. Helen will show you where you will stay. For now I just want to lie down."

"Very well," Molesley sighed. "Will that be all, sir?"

Matthew only nodded, and valet left the room. He then inhaled deeply, and began to unbutton his vest and loosen his tie, both of which he then discarded onto the chair by the drawers. That done, he removed his shoes and sat on the bed, leaving his stick against the bedpost, before lying down and closing his eyes.

With no further thought.

As always, Matthew Crawley walked by himself, and all places were alike to him.* He was as a ghost, drifting between living and death's other kingdom**, seeing without looking, hearing without listening, touching without feeling. Even the best of men sometimes must allow themselves to fall without getting up again.

* * *

_She sat at the bench near the front of the house, at __their__ bench, where the most good-natured of teasing and flirting, the most amusing reflections, and the most wonderful and affectionate of memories had taken place. Matthew approached her, unhindered by the scars both of body and mind, which he'd received at the front, for in Lady Mary Crawley's presence he forgot the shadows of his past. She was beautiful; indeed, he'd always considered her to be the most beautiful woman he'd ever beheld, not only because of her outward looks, but because of the way she held herself, the balanced dignity mixed with bold independence. But the most attractive of her features were her dark eyes and her natural smile, like the one she now directed at him as he drew nearer. _

_With nothing, neither obligation nor reservation to restrain him, he drew her into his arms, and she raised her eyes to meet his. As he stared into their depths, he whispered, "I thought you'd given up, and didn't want me anymore. I thought I'd lost you."_

_Mary serenely replied, "Oh, Matthew, what am I always telling you? You must pay no attention to the things I say."_

_He returned her smile, and instinctively he lowered his face toward hers; she tugged on his lapels, pulling him closer, and pressed her lips against his. He delighted in the feel of her, with her arms around his shoulders and her left hand stroking his cheek. When he broke the kiss for air, he found that they were no longer at the bench, but in his dressing room at Crawley House. He reached up and covered her left hand, which still caressed his face, with his own, rejoicing as he noted the ring on her fourth finger. He then dug his fingers into Mary's hair and kissed her again, all the while pulling her closer to the bed. There was nothing to push or pull them apart; all that stood between them was the deepest love and the greatest esteem, and it was then that Matthew knew with a certainty that this was the only right thing in the world. _

* * *

And with a jolt Matthew woke up. He was confused at first at his surroundings, for this certainly wasn't the room he remembered at Crawley House, and when he turned over and found himself without Mary at his side, he realized that he'd only dreamed, and an overwhelming feeling of loneliness came over him. The dream not only stirred up feelings but memories of a happier time before all the pain and disappointment, the lost hopes that would never be fulfilled. By his own decision, those days were at an end. It was over.

With that thought, Matthew then felt a terrible disgust at himself for dreaming of Mary in such a way, and also distinctly guilty that he couldn't stop desiring her. How she always tormented him, always in sight but never in reach! And every time he tried to forget her, she appeared again, either in mind or in reality, stronger than ever. But then again, after he'd so thoughtlessly betrayed Lavinia, did he not deserve to suffer?

He shifted in his bed and shut his eyes again, not wanting to get up in spite of the morning light coming in through the window; but he found that he couldn't return to sleep, not with the pain of an aching heart and aching joints. But eventually one pain won over the other, so he shifted again and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and reaching for his stick. He then shakily raised himself and looked at the fob watch he'd left on his bedside table. He was startled to see that it was almost noon, although since he had nowhere to be at, it didn't really matter. All the same, Matthew picked up the vest he'd worn the evening before, and looked up at the mirror that remained in the corner.

He didn't look very different from the morning two days earlier, when he'd dressed for Lavinia's funeral. His face was still very pale, and his eyes looked sunken and dark. He also was almost positive that he'd lost weight in the past week. He thought he looked like a phantom, existing without purpose in eternal guilt and regret; but he also found that he didn't care.

* * *

Half an hour later found Matthew sitting at the breakfast table, sipping the tea Molesley had just brewed but not tasting it, and staring at a small meal of toast and eggs but barely touching it, as had been his habit for the past week. His thoughts weren't as dark though, but that may have been because he barely thought anything. In comparison, however, that was a welcome state of mind. Then Molesley entered the room.

"Mr. Crawley," he said apprehensively (for Matthew had been in this silent state since he'd gotten up), "there's a letter for you."

His employer made no reply, nor did he look up from his half-eaten meal. Matthew gave no indication that he had heard him at all, and not wanting to disturb him, Molesley lay the envelope and the letter opener on the table and exited the room. But as soon as he heard the door close, Matthew picked up his valet's delivery. He then slit the envelope open and shook out the letter, and as he unfolded it, he recognized the writer's hand at once. A feeling of anger and nervousness swept over him, and he immediately fought an impulse to throw the letter away. But at the same time curiosity, a thirst for a reminder from the life and family he'd run from, once again, countered the angry impulse to forsake it all. He both feared and hungered for news and contact from Downton, and eventually one impulse became too much to bear. So after a few minutes Matthew forced himself to read the letter:

_My dear cousin,_

_Having just received your note and Cousin Isobel's message, I write to tell you that I understand your decision to leave Downton for a time, and I wish you luck as you recover from your loss. All I ask is that you stay in touch, and when you feel ready, that you visit from time to time. We all miss you already. Just know that you will always be welcome here. I know you tire of hearing it, but once again I must tell you how terribly sorry I am about all this. _

_I wish you all the best,_

_Robert Crawley_

Matthew folded up the letter and flung it across the table in frustration. Though he was very fond of his cousin, he couldn't help but feel slightly offended that to Robert his removal to Manchester merely was a time to "recover," as though Lavinia's memory was simply some disease to recover and convalesce from. Additionally, he neither wanted his family's pity, nor did he wish to return to Downton, not until duty required his presence there as the heir. Indignant on Lavinia's behalf, and pained at the tempting thought of seeing Robert's eldest daughter, even from a distance, Matthew stood up, took up his walking stick, and left the room. Without sending for Molesley, he took his hat and coat from the rack in the front hall, opened the door, and hobbled out into the street, into the bustle of the city outside, leaving behind the offending letter.

For tempting it was, the thought of returning to Downton! But now life there would never be _that_ life he secretly longed for, the life he'd dreamed of for seven years. There was too much loss and too much heartbreak, too many hard feelings, for life at Downton to be anything but plagued with all his mistakes, a seducing yet stinging reminder of the dream they'd destroyed.

No, he would remain safely at Manchester, because he could not bear to set foot anywhere near Downton: not at the location of Lavinia's grave; not at the house where Cousin Cora still recovered from the illness which _she'd_ survived but his fiancée had not; and certainly nowhere near _her_, the tempting Siren that always beckoned him closer.

* * *

*Rudyard Kipling. "The Cat That Walked By Himself."

** T.S. Eliot. "The Hollow Men."

* * *

**I hope that in the coming chapters I'll be able to convey the feel of the post-World War I world. It was severely traumatic for Europe. The Great War was, from the European perspective, the biggest war ever fought, and they lost millions of young men, only to lose 50 million more people to Spanish Flu. **

**I intend this to begin with a Matthew Crawley caught up in this postwar angst. The next few chapters will deal more with his underlying anger about the war, which I think would have been very great. Lavinia's death in addition to that would have pushed him over the edge. He's in a very dark place right now, and I feel he needs to be away from Downton for a while to even begin to sort himself out. **

**In this story, I will also explore Matthew's life before he first moved to Downton. **


	3. Chapter 2: A Broken Column

Chapter 2

A Broken Column

It was the fifth time at the fifth hour, according to the toll of the bell. The cold evening air gently touched Matthew's face as he slowly walked past the marble stones, still dependent upon the assistance of his stick, but nonetheless still drawn to that place he both loved and feared. As he continued in that direction, he looked nether left nor right, not wanting to see the rows of white crosses that had appeared since his last sojourning in Manchester, all standing in formation like the men they represented. Since his first visit nearly a week ago, Matthew had avoided looking at them for the fear of seeing the names, boys from Manchester whose names he might remember. He wanted no more voices of the dead to haunt his memory and his heart, yet their chorus began here, at this place, many years earlier. He didn't know why, but he felt drawn to it, a single stab of granite, standing by a broken column, a tombstone with the name of the first voice inscribed upon it:

REGINALD CRAWLEY

13 April 1860 – 21 November 1897

_Beloved husband and father_

Matthew stared at his father's name, remembering the man he'd looked up to as a child, his example and hero, before he became the first in the dead chorus. Reginald had closely resembled his son: a tall man with blonde hair and deep blue eyes that seemed to pierce Matthew's very soul. Reginald could discipline and still awe his child simply by leveling those eyes at him. But Matthew had adored his father, and because of his example he came to resemble Reginald in character as well. Or so his mother assured him, and Matthew had hoped since he was a boy to act and think and behave as Reginald Crawley would have.

Then the unthinkable happened. To all boys of almost twelve the sudden and brutal death of a father is always unthinkable, and still, after all these years, Matthew couldn't think of it but with shame at what had preceded the horrific incident.

He drew a rattled breath, and leaned heavily on his stick. Back then he'd been a stubborn boy of eleven years who hated study and regularly played cricket with the other boys in his neighborhood, determined to defeat that arrogant rat Walter Finch at the game, Walter, who had boasted of his upcoming voyage to America with an aristocratic friend from Eton. But both drowned on the Titanic and that friend from Eton had turned out to be Patrick Crawley, Matthew's fourth cousin… two more voices to add to the dead chorus.

If only Reginald Crawley could see his son now: a defeated, embittered soul, thirty-three years old, still young yet so weary, a survivor of a brutal and simply _stupid_ war, sadly benefiting off one of the deaths in the worst seafaring disaster yet recorded, and a witness to the most vicious pandemic in known history. Seven years ago he became heir to the Earl of Grantham, but since then he'd lost many friends and comrades to German bullets, and his fiancée to the pandemic. In seven years his heart was shattered with grief and guilt and the pains of rejection and disappointment, over and over again, and he no longer knew how to pick up the pieces, or if he even wanted to. Matthew Crawley, once a determined boy who played cricket in Manchester, was left a tired and unmotivated man who couldn't even walk from his bedroom to the dining room without the assistance of a walking stick. What a reversal!

With a snort of disgust, he turned away from the grave, and quickly as was possible for him, impotent fool that he was, he headed back toward the kissing gate that divided the churchyard from the city. At that moment, however, an older man in the black cloth of the clergy stepped through the gate, and he paused as they caught sight of each other. Matthew stopped dead. Then the other raised his eyebrows and gave a slow nod.

"Good evening, Mr. Crawley."

Matthew swallowed. "Mr. Smith," he responded.

"I thought I saw you enter," the vicar told him. "I wasn't aware that you were in Manchester." In spite of his words, he didn't look very surprised to see him.

"I arrived only a couple of weeks ago," Matthew replied quietly.

"I haven't seen you in church."

Matthew shook his head guiltily, avoiding Mr. Smith's continued scrutiny, which made him feel slightly uncomfortable. "I wasn't feeling up to it."

Mr. Smith's eyes then flicked to the black mourning band on Matthew's left sleeve, and he nodded in understanding. "Of course," he said kindly. "But I am very pleased to see you. It's been quite a while."

"Almost five years," Matthew agreed. "Just before I enlisted."

Smith smiled. "I remember. I ran into you almost at this exact spot, if I recall. You looked rather troubled then, though I suppose we all were."

Matthew looked downwards again to hide his scowl at the reminder of the circumstances at that time, after he first ran away from Downton, heartbroken and also worried about the newly declared war. If troubled was how he looked then, who knew how he looked now?

After a moment's awkward pause, Smith continued, "So, would you like to come over to the vicarage for some tea? I'd like to get reacquainted. That is, if you're feeling up to it."

Matthew wanted to decline. Though as a child he'd liked and admired the clergyman, Smith had always had a scrutinizing gaze that made it difficult to hide things from him. He always knew if something troubled one of his parishioners. Matthew supposed that years of experience listening to people's woes, and lending assistance as they dealt with them, had enabled him to develop that ability. But Matthew didn't want to discuss his troubles with anyone, so he looked back up to politely refuse the offer. But Mr. Smith looked at him so earnestly, that the sound that instead escaped Matthew's lips was "Certainly."

The clergyman gave his thanks, and turned and led the way out of the churchyard, and past the chapel, toward a modest house that stood in the corner of the church grounds. Matthew knew the place well. As a child he often accompanied his mother to visits with Mrs. Smith. The two were good friends before his father's death, but then they drifted apart, and when Isobel moved to Downton, they seemed to have lost contact entirely.

The vicarage looked the same, but when Mr. Smith led Matthew inside, he noticed that the place seemed oddly quiet. Smith took his hat off, and his coat, which he hung on the rack by the door. After Matthew followed suit, Smith led him down the hall to the little sitting room by the front window. He then told Matthew he'd be a few minutes, and retreated to the adjacent kitchen. Matthew carefully lowered himself into one of the armchairs and leaned his cane against its side. From his position he could see Smith working. As he watched, the vicar filled a kettle with water, and then pulled a small matchbox from his pocket watch and lit the stove. Matthew sighed and glanced at his pocket watch as he waited.

At length, Smith returned to the sitting room with a tray holding a teapot and a couple of cups, which he set down on the little table in front of Matthew.

"Sorry that took so long," Smith said as he poured the tea. "I hadn't planned on having visitors, so I'm afraid I'm a bit unprepared."

"That's quite all right."

Smith handed Matthew a cup, then offered him a little dish of white cubes. "Sugar?"

"Thank you." He took one and deposited it into his cup.

"I'm afraid you may find me dull company," Mr. Smith told him. "The place isn't as lively as it used to be."

"Where's Mrs. Smith?"

Mr. Smith shook his head, and Matthew's heart sank. "The flu pandemic took her."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She lived life to her fullest, and she went surrounded by family, without any regrets." A sad look had appeared on Mr. Smith's face as he reflected on his loss. But after a moment he then shrugged and started to pour himself a cup. He then looked at Matthew and said conversationally, "I was very pleased to hear that you made it back from the war. So few did."

Matthew sipped his tea, but at the reminder of the trenches he suddenly found the brew hard to swallow. Once he managed to, he replied quietly, "I prefer not to think about the war."

Mr. Smith nodded. "I imagine not. I've never been a soldier, but I had a brother who fought in the African war, and he had a rough time of it too."

Matthew set his cup down, and looked up at the aging vicar. "The thing is," he began, "I can understand the duty to serve one's country. I can understand putting your life on the line for that duty. I fully understand the fury and grief when a comrade falls, because I've experienced it more times than I care to count." His voice began to shake with repressed anger. "I know the need to live in the present, knowing that the war will likely deny you a future. But I cannot understand why we were there at all, fighting and killing men exactly like us, who also left behind their homes and their lives and their families. The war ended, and nothing was gained, and too much was lost." He drew a shuddering breath, before finally demanding of no one, "_What was it all for?"_

Mr. Smith considered the young veteran before him, and the latter realized that once again, he'd submitted to the vicar's knack of gently persuading people to let the steam out. After a few minutes, Smith smiled and gently responded, "We live in dark, troubled times, Mr. Crawley, and I fear that it isn't over yet."

Matthew looked up in startled dismay at the thought, unable to imagine how things could get worse, but before he could respond, Mr. Smith continued speaking.

"The war was conducted badly," he explained in a thoughtful voice, "and it ended badly. Oh, they talk of peace treaties and negotiations and leagues of nations, but too much was lost on both sides for peace to last. Everyone is angry, just as you are, and there will almost certainly be those who wish to strike back. That is unfortunately human nature. But consider this, that things will seem brightest after the darkest hell is overcome." Smith also set his cup down, and he leaned forward, his eyes fixed upon Matthew's face in so intense an expression that the latter found himself unable to look away. "Remember that," he said firmly. "Remember that you survived. I can't tell you why God spared some and allowed so many others to perish, but this I do know, that God's foolishness is wiser than man's wisdom*. Remember that, Matti."

The use of the childhood name didn't astonish Matthew as much as Mr. Smith's words. He was in awe that Mr. Smith could be so pessimistic and yet so optimistic at the same time, and also in awe that he could be optimistic at all. But he could not be comforted. Smith himself couldn't explain why some survived and others did not, and it was easy to say that so lightly when one thought only in numbers, but Matthew only ever thought of the _persons_ who had not survived the past fateful decade. He thought of William Mason, one of the gentlest men Matthew knew, and loyal to his country to the last, but who lost his life to save his master's. He thought of those whose names adorned the white crosses in the churchyard, who lost their lives without purpose. He thought of Patrick Crawley, whose death brought Matthew a great inheritance; and he thought of Lavinia, a gentle, kind girl who deserved neither the pain of illness nor of heartbreak as she died. What could be more wrong than these deaths? Some died, some did not, but put like that, William and Lavinia were then simply part of the machine, disposed of like useless parts in favor of the betters.

They sat in this manner for some time, with Mr. Smith calmly sipping his tea, and Matthew dwelling upon these dark thoughts, until a dock chimed, breaking the uncomfortable silence, and Matthew set down his now tepid tea and abruptly clambered to his feet.

"I should head back," he said.

Smith nodded. "Of course," he said serenely. "Shall I see you at church on Sunday?"

Again, Matthew wanted to refuse, held back by his unrelenting anger at everything, but at the same time, he had no desire to offend the spiritual leader who once was a close friend to his father. Mr. Smith again watched Matthew earnestly, awaiting a reply, and torn, Matthew could only tell him, "Perhaps. Thank you for the tea."

Mr. Smith didn't look disappointed or offended. He simply smiled and replied, "It was my pleasure. I hope we may do this again very soon." He then stood up, and led Matthew to the door to show him out.

As Matthew bid his farewells and stepped over the threshold, however, Smith added, "While you're in Manchester, I'll also pray that you find the answers you seek. Good day, Mr. Crawley."

And with a last, gentle smile, Mr. Smith closed the door.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Crawley,_

_I regret that we were unable to talk at the funeral, but understandably you weren't in the mood. In all honesty, neither was I. But though I've lost a daughter and you a fiancée, I'd like to continue our acquaintance, knowing that it's what Lavinia would have wanted. I'd be very happy if arranged a visit, whether at your home or at mine. Let me know when it would be convenient._

_Yours,_

_Reggie Swire_

The envelope had no return address. Thus Matthew was ignorant of the writer's identity until he'd read the first half of the letter. After that, he'd had to force himself to read the rest. He was surprised and gratified that Mr. Swire wanted to continue their friendship, though Matthew would never be his son-in-law now. He appreciated the gesture, but on the other hand, a terrible sensation bubbled in his stomach, shame so great that he began to feel physically ill. The last time he'd seen Mr. Swire was from a distance at the funeral; he'd kept by the open casket, unable to utter a word, his expression pale and forlorn as he stared at his daughter's face and closed eyes. But Matthew hadn't worked up the courage to face Swire then, and he could not see how he could face him now. Not after all that was done, not when every time Matthew thought of Lavinia, he remembered her tears and her stricken face as she uttered those heartrending words:

_It's not in me to be queen of the county. I'm a little person, an ordinary person, and when I saw you and Mary together, I thought how fine, how right you looked together. _

A little person, an ordinary person. That's how Lavinia had thought of herself in her last hours. She could be that cruel to herself, because she'd lost some sense of self-worth, and Matthew, her fiancé, had done that to her, and Mary had done that to her. Their unthinking actions had caused Lavinia to die thinking herself worthless. Would Reggie Swire want anything to do with Matthew, if he had known all this?

But that left Matthew with the difficult question: what should he do next? He looked again at the letter, and noticed the words, which his mother had scribbled on a separate page: _I received this letter this morning. Since you obviously haven't told Mr. Swire of your change of residence, I recommend that you inform him at once. _

Isobel clearly expected him to at least respond to the letter, and knowing his mother, Matthew was certain that she had read the letter and that she thought he ought to accept the invitation. He wouldn't even be surprised if she'd already informed Swire of his removal to Manchester. Her closure only added to his guilt.

_Do let me know when you plan to return to Downton. It's quite lonely here sometimes. _

With a sigh, Matthew pushed away his breakfast and bent forward, leaning his head in his hands.

* * *

* 1 Corinthians 1:25.

Note: The chapter is named for an image in "The Hollow Men." A broken column is a traditional graveyard memorial for a premature death.

* * *

**I know that not a lot really has happened in this chapter, but it has hinted towards several things in Matthew's past that the show didn't cover, especially in Matthew's relationship with his late father. The next chapter will introduce another character from Matthew's undisclosed past, give a few more details about Matthew's life before Downton and in the trenches, and will also start to kick off the story of Matthew's time in Manchester. All I will say here is that I plan to finish a storyline that Series 2 started but Julian Fellowes never really resolved. It's one that Downton Abbey fans have speculated about a lot.**


End file.
